


That Which Is Indelible

by BrighteyedJill



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: A little Humiliation, A little light mind control, A little light torture, Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - 4F (military prostitute Steve Rogers), Anal Gaping, Anal Sex, But Mostly Hurt, But nobody loses any limbs, Come Marking, Creepy eugenics talk, Cutting, Gang Rape, HYDRA Trash Party, Hurt/Comfort, Knifeplay, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Object Penetration, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 10:00:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22394215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: Hydra has noticed that the Sergeant Bucky Barnes and the Howling Commandos are a little too fond of the skinny pro-boy who's been tagging along with them. That makes him the perfect bait for a trap. And as long as Hydra has got him, they may as well get some use out of him.
Relationships: Howling Commandos/Steve Rogers, Hydra Agents/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 35
Kudos: 176





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rubynye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/gifts).



> This is part of the 4F alternate universe, a collective Captain America AU in which internal canon is a very fuzzy concept. No knowledge of prior stories is necessary to enjoy this one. The basic premise is that Steve never got the serum, but enlisted in the Army as a prophylactic auxiliary (pro boy), whose job it is to provide sex for other soldiers. He's been assigned to the Howling Commandos. Bucky broke himself and the others out of the factory, thanks to the knock-off serum acquired from Zola. In the time Steve's been assigned to the Howlies, they've all gotten pretty close, and also Bucky Barnes is not doing so well with his super(ish) powers. 
> 
> If you like this and want to read more in the 4F universe, there are some really great pieces: "Government Issue" by stoatsandwich is a good place to start.
> 
> Thanks to thefilthiestpiglet for cheerleading and beta-ing!

“No, it’s because the pro-boy knows which end to hold!”

Dernier threw back his head and laughed, then clapped Steve on the back. “That is a good one. Do not tell Jones until I am there—I want to see him spitting out his coffee.”

Steve stood up and pulled on his pants and shirt. “If I’m gonna make coffee in six hours, I need to go clean up.”

“Yes, yes of course.” Dernier pressed a quick kiss to Steve’s cheek, then gently shoved him towards the tent flap. “Pleasant dreams.”

Steve walked past the row of tents and grabbed the empty jerry can and his towel from the wash line by the remains of the fire and checked his pockets for his hygiene kit before picking his way towards the stream. It was Falsworth’s turn to sleep with Steve tonight, so he’d have to grab his rucksack from out of Barnes’ tent before he went to bed. Hopefully Barnes wouldn’t be awake. Steve knew if he saw those eyes watching him in the dark, he’d be apologizing to Monty in the morning for having to sleep alone again. 

He’d just crouched by the stream to fill the can when he felt the cold muzzle of a gun at the back of his neck. 

“Get up,” said a voice with a thick German accent. 

Steve gripped the half-full can tightly and started to stand. Maybe he could swing it around and—

A second figure appeared out of the shadows to his left and pulled Steve’s arms behind his back, leaving the jerry can to drop into the dirt. “Do not try anything, or we will shoot you. You understand?”

Steve nodded, though he’d scream if he had to. His night vision was terrible, but he could see the white outline of a squid on the lapels of their jackets. Hydra. If these men meant to sneak into the camp and get the jump on the Howlies, he would holler his head off, consequences be damned. 

One of the men tied his hands, while the other held the gun on him, frowning. He spoke to his companion in German, but Steve had been begging German lessons off of Jones for more than a year now, and he could catch most of what they said. 

“You sure this is the one?”

“Yes. See this?” The other one pulled Steve’s dog tags up to display their shape. “Pro boy tags.”

“It’s just… he doesn’t look like much.”

“Well, the Americans have no taste in whores.” This soldier shoved him in the back and switched to English. “You, move.”

Steve prepared to shout, to rush the soldier with the gun if he needed to, but the man swung in behind Steve, out of his line of sight, and then herded Steve further into the trees, north, away from the tents. 

Behind him, his captors were muttering to each other. 

“Are you certain they will come for him?”

“The reports say they always do.”  
\--

Bucky sat on a rock next to the fire cleaning his rifle. He’d been up early again—damn nightmares were worse when he slept alone. But the other guys deserved their turn, too. He didn’t need a nursemaid. He could lose himself in the soothing routine of gun maintenance and listen to the other Howlies hassle each other over mundane things. Their banter rushed over him like the sound of waves. Gentle lapping of water. He could pretend he was somewhere nice, like Coney Island: the kind of place you could walk with another fella and get an ice cream.

“Hey Jacques, next time I’ll take your turn and my own, too.”

“No, no. Do not point your finger at me! He left right after.”

“Cheeky little bugger.” Falsworth plopped down on a log next to Barnes and gave him an exaggerated scowl. “You greedy bastard. You owe me at least four cigarettes.”

“For what now?” Bucky looked up from his gun, at last registering the conversation.

“Absconding with Army resources. Monopolizing the auxiliary.” His mock scowl changed into a rueful smile. “Well, you can’t blame him for having—“

“Rogers?” Bucky stood up with his rifle in his hand and stepped over the semi-circle of rocks and logs. He marched back to his tent and raised the flap. Rogers wasn’t there. His pack was, and his sketchbook, still flipped open to the caricature of Dugan as a bulldog they’d been laughing over at supper. He let the tent flap fall. 

Bucky scanned the camp, still hoping that at any moment Rogers might pop out from one of the tents and apologize for causing a fuss. Or he’d come out of the trees and tease Bucky about how he couldn’t even take a shit without one of the Howlies playing mother hen. 

Falsworth jogged up to Bucky, looking grim. “If he’s not with you, where is he?”

Bucky turned on his heel and set off through the trees, following the deer track to the stream they’d been using. The jerry can lay on its side a few feet from the water. The bank was littered with all of their footprints, but Bucky noticed, among the even treads of Army boot prints, a few prints with the deeper heel marks of jackboots. He looked up and scanned the forest to the north. When he breathed in, he caught the smell of tobacco, faint enough that he could barely pick it out among the general damp and decaying leaves. He stepped forward, scanning the ground. At the base of a tree in the deep shade were three cigarette butts, half ground into the dirt. Someone had waited here. They’d gotten what the wanted and gone. 

When he turned back towards camp, Falsworth, Dernier, and Jones were standing with weapons in hand, and Morita and Dugan were coming up the path behind them. All of them watched him with sharp eyes.

“Pack up,” he told them. “They’ve got a full night’s head start.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The history of [boots in WWII](https://www.quora.com/Were-German-WW1-2-jackboots-as-impractical-they-seem-The-unfortunate-connotation-aside-would-an-updated-jackboot-be-practical-for-a-modern-military?top_ans=28726809) is interesting. I do think Hydra would have stuck with jackboots for the ~aesthetic~ even after the rest of the German army switched to something more practical.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve’s head was pounding. He experimentally cracked open one eye, but the room was dim and at least didn’t make the headache worse. He thought he remembered the soldiers shoving him up against a tree, and expecting to have to suck them, but one of them had shoved a sweet-smelling cloth to his face, and here he was. 

A cellar, stone-floored and lit with tasteful decorative sconces. A house the squids had taken over, maybe, not a secret base. That might mean they were deep behind enemy lines, or just that they’d appropriated some poor bastard’s country estate. The cellar had racks of wine, shelves stacked with crates of beer bottles and a row of large barrels, each resting on its own cradle stand. 

Steve shifted, and felt rough wood against the naked skin of his chest. He’d been placed over the last barrel in the row, face down and naked. He tried to move, and found that his wrists were secured to his ankles under the barrel by something metal. He twisted and writhed, testing the limits of his bonds, and found that the most he could do was arch his back a little, or roll a bit to one side or the other. It seemed these squids were a little more cautious than others had been. 

The two who’d taken him from camp had seemed to know who he was. “Reports,” one had said. It made sense the squids would try to get intelligence on the Howlies, who’d been thwarting their efforts left and right in the past few months, but Steve couldn’t see why he, the least important member of the squad, not even a combatant, would appear in any intelligence report.

Wood creaked behind Steve—a staircase? The barrel blocked his view, but when he turned his good ear, he could hear voices, too. Rapid, excited German. He needed to see how many. He might be able to sweet talk them into letting him loose, taking him somewhere else, or at least fuck them until they were worn out, and sneak away somehow. Usually they wanted to gloat, or at least slap him around. But Steve didn’t even get a glimpse of any of the soldiers before someone was smearing grease on his hole and lining up a dick. Steve gritted his teeth and tried to relax. They shoved in with only a little difficulty and set up a pounding rhythm, jolting Steve against the rough surface of the barrel. 

“How’s it feel?” one asked in German.

“Tight.”

“Not for long,” another said. They all laughed, at least half a dozen of them. 

Steve thought about protesting, but it wasn’t likely to do much good, and he might as well not give away the fact that he could understand them unless he had to. They might say something useful.

The first one clamped his hand on Steve’s hips and started to come. He pulled out and splashed his spunk all over Steve’s ass with a throaty groan. Then he patted Steve’s back, like he was a horse, and stepped away. The next one took his place almost immediately, hammering away with the same casual disregard.

Steve closed his eyes and thought about what he’d be doing if he were home right now, in camp with the Howlies. It had been his night with Falsworth, so he’d wake up warm, Falsworth sprawled half on top of him. He’d get water from the stream to start the coffee. He’d make egg patties out of the last of their egg powder, maybe cut up some spam to go with. He’d watch Barnes clean his rifle, even though it was already clean, while the other Howlies talked and ate breakfast.

The second soldier finished with a grunt. He pulled out and shot his load across Steve’s back. Then the next one pushed in. At least Steve was getting warmed up now, so this long cock spearing into him didn’t hurt much at all. 

Steve busied himself imagining all the mundane chores of packing up camp—brushing dew off the tents and rolling them up, coiling up the wash line, wrapping his sketchbook in a scrap of waxed cotton so it wouldn’t be ruined if it rained—and the Hydra soldiers fucked him and painted him with their come. Whether their coming on him was on orders or because of some aversion to coming inside him, Steve didn’t bother to contemplate. 

When the last of them finished, they trooped upstairs, leaving Steve alone again. He tested his shackles and threw his weight this way and that, seeing if he could tip over the barrel before it occurred to him he might as easily get himself crushed as get free. 

In less than ten minutes, more footsteps sounded on the stairs. Again, none of the soldiers addressed him as they fucked him, but they chatted amongst themselves, talking about how Lieutenant Dolph was such a hardass, and how a squad in the 14th Panzer Division had blown themselves up testing those new energy weapons, and how they thought they could win some cigarettes off of Private Klingemann, who was terrible at cards. Each of them pulled out as they came, splashing their seed over the drying layer already clinging to Steve’s skin. 

When they left and a third group came down, Steve tried talking to them in English. “Where am I? Who’s in charge here? Hello?”

They gave no sign that they heard him, except one of them stepped around the barrel and unloaded all over Steve’s face. He tried inefficiently to wipe it off against his shoulder, but patches of it dried and crusted over, making his skin itch. 

Steve lost count of the groups after a while. No one acknowledged him. They only pounded away at his sore ass and came on him. It didn’t make any sense. This couldn’t have been a random kidnapping of a pro boy. For one thing, Steve didn’t flatter himself that he was a good enough piece of ass to justify the trouble. The Howlies had grown fond of him, and he made himself useful to them, but he wouldn’t have been their first choice, and certainly wouldn’t be anyone else’s. Second, the men who’d taken him had been talking about the Howlies, he was sure of it. They wanted Steve as a hostage, or maybe as bait. Were they trying to wear him down before they questioned him, or just take advantage of his presence to give bored troops some recreation? He fumed to think of Hydra soldiers relaxed and focused and ready to kill Allies thanks to a turn with Steve. Steve didn’t want them fucking him, didn’t want to make them feel good, didn’t want to be used that way.

He shouted and struggled and cursed when the next group came to fuck him. They ignored him just the same, and didn’t even bother to hold him down, just plowed into him despite his meager struggles. When a soldier shot a load of Steve’s face while he was shouting, Steve spat out the come that spurted into his mouth. The soldier smeared his hand through the mess on the floor, then wiped it in Steve’s hair. The next two after that aimed their loads for Steve’s hair and rubbed it in after, which was the closest anyone came to acknowledging him all day. 

It must have been getting on to evening by then, because Steve caught the smell of cooking food wafting down the stairs, and his stomach rumbled. He wondered if they’d offer him anything, and if so, whether he’d take it. A larger than usual group arrived, but rather than come directly to fuck Steve, they busied themselves behind him. Steve heard the scrape of chairs and tables, and the flutter of shuffling cards. One came into Steve’s line of sight to retrieve a case of beer bottles from the shelf, and then Steve heard the sound of metal bottle caps clattering. The men were talking and laughing, and new ones came down to join the group. Cigarette smoke filled the air, hazy in the warm lamplight. It was the longest Steve had been without a cock in him all day. 

But soon enough a man stepped up and shoved his greased-up dick into Steve. He planted a hand on Steve’s back and thrust into him in deep, unhurried strokes that strained Steve’s guts. Conversation continued around them, and the man took his time fucking Steve, now faster, now slower, now long plunging thrusts, now inserting just the tip again and again, teasing at Steve’s rim. Steve gritted his teeth and endured it. He tried not to compare any of these sensations to what the Howlies did with him; Dernier fucking him slowly and shallowly so he'd last, Jones teasing him with shallow thrusts until Steve begged. He would not push back against this man, or tighten, or struggle for his amusement. Let him get what pleasure he could from an unresponsive hole. At last the man pulled out, pushed Steve’s ass cheeks apart, and spurted against his ass. 

Someone else took his place almost immediately. How many men were there, Steve wondered. Were these men the same ones who’d fucked him earlier today, or others? If they were setting a trap for the Howlies, the place had to be well fortified, well manned. Hydra knew by now what Barnes and the Howlies could do to a base. But Steve didn’t intend to just sit here and wait. He’d gather all the intel he could and get out of here before they could use him for whatever trap they meant to spring. 

Steve worked to pick out conversations and ignore the sensation of another stranger’s cock penetrating him. It was difficult to hear much in the cacophony, and the raw scrape of a cock inside him buzzed in his awareness like a fly. He was finding it difficult to focus. The room had grown warm and his limbs heavy with fatigue. Every so often come would splash across his face or back. Breathing was his main occupation—pulling enough air into his lungs to push against the unyielding surface of the barrel. He found he didn’t have the attention for anything else. 

Once, the cock inside him stilled, and he fought to open his eyes, though they were nearly sealed shut with dying come. A soldier stood holding a camera and gesturing to the man behind Steve. “A little to the left, Albert. Franz, hold up your glass. OK, now smile!” Steve closed his eyes before the shutter clicked, and did not think of what someone would say if he saw that photo: Steve tied down and smeared all over with the enemy’s come, with a squid fucking him, and more waiting for their turn. Steve, weak and unresisting as he provided aid and comfort to the enemy. Colonel Phillips would scowl at it, and scan it for clues to the location of a Hydra base, but Barnes would not like it. He might get that look in his eyes like he was somewhere far away, and he couldn’t see what was right in front of him. 

Steve gritted his teeth as the latest man pulled out and splashed come across his ass. He was going to get out of this and get back to his post. He’d do his job so well it would cancel out any good it had done Hydra or their soldiers to have him here. Let some squid take a photo of Steve to jerk off to—they wouldn’t be around to enjoy it for long.

Steve drifted for a while as the night dragged on. As best he could, he rested. It wasn’t the first time he’d fallen asleep with a cock in his ass. Some time later, he realized the voices had disappeared, and no one was fucking him. Another night gone. If the Howlies were looking for him, they couldn’t be far now. He needed to be ready to do his part to escape.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains creepy eugenics talk, including ableist language.

Dernier was the first one to examine the package left in the middle of the road; if it was anything that might blow up, he had the best chance of disarming it. He prodded at it a bit, then lifted one corner with the barrel of his rifle, but when nothing happened, he gingerly picked it up and began unwinding the wrapping.

“I don’t like this,” Morita muttered at Bucky’s back. “It’s like they left something for us on purpose.”

“And if they left something for us, they know where we are,” Gabe pointed out. He and the others were keeping their eyes on the tree line, guns at the ready. Bucky had his eyes on Dernier, who had unwrapped what seemed to be a poncho to reveal a large envelope. 

“Definitely don’t like that,” said Morita.

Ahead, Dernier signaled the all clear. Bucky closed the distance between them in a few seconds, and snatched the envelope when Dernier offered it up. Inside was a single photograph. Bucky looked at it in the bright sunshine, picking out every detail. He wanted to memorize the faces in the picture. 

“What is it?” Dugan said, appearing at his shoulder. 

Bucky handed him the photo. He looked at the road ahead, and the position of the sun, calculating how far he could get by nightfall. He started walking double-quick. Behind him, Dugan swore, passed the photo off to Falsworth, and jogged after him.

“Sarge, stop. They want you to come charging in, guns blazing. Why the hell else would they leave this for us?”

“They wanted to piss me off. I’m pissed off.”

“They know exactly where we are, or they wouldn’t have known where to leave this. They’re watching us.” Dugan stepped in front of Bucky and put a hand on his chest to stop him. “They left a trail a baby could follow. What does that tell you?”

“Get out of my way, Dum Dum.” Bucky resisted the urge to hit Dugan in the face with the butt of his rifle and be done with it. They were wasting time. 

“We need to scout the situation, come up with a plan.” He waved a hand in the direction of the other Howlies. “The six of us can’t do this in a frontal assault. They’re waiting for us.”

“Not for much longer.” Barnes brushed off Dugan’s hand and started walking again. 

“Barnes, Jesus Christ, stop.” Dugan grabbed him by the arm. 

Bucky whirled, caught his wrist, and pushed him away. “I’m going. You can go with me or not.”

“We don’t shrug off bullet wounds like you do,” Dugan snapped. Barnes looked at Dugan’s side, where a single bullet wound had taken weeks to heal, then looked away. “We want Rogers back, too, but we’re not gonna get him this way.”

“Fine.” Bucky huffed out an impatient breath. “Then don’t come with me.” He shoved past Dugan and fixed his eyes on the road ahead.

“They’ll kill him.” Dugan called after him, and Bucky stopped. “You show up, guns blazing. They get what they want, and they don’t need Rogers anymore. They shoot him. Maybe they shoot you, maybe not, but if he’s not dead already, he will be the minute you show up.”

“He’s not dead.”

Dugan came a few steps closer. “Ok.”

“He’s not. Fuck.” Bucky dropped into a crouch as fear welled up in him so fast he couldn’t keep his balance. He squeezed his eyes shut against the images of what they’d done to him when they’d taken him: needles, the cold metal table, pain so deep he felt like his bones were on fire. He breathed and held onto his gun until the images faded. They hadn’t had Rogers that long. And they weren’t going to have him much longer. Bucky pushed to his feet, scrubbed a hand over his face, and turned to Dugan. “So how do we make sure they don’t kill him?”

“Me and the guys were talking.” Dugan’s eyes flicked to them, then back to Bucky. “We have a kind of plan. It’s dangerous and stupid, but a little less dangerous and stupid than your plan.”

“Let’s hear it.”  
\--

Steve stretched out each limb one by one, as far as they would go. It helped get the blood flowing, but it also awakened complaining muscles. He didn’t have much of a reach with the fetters on, and even if someone let him loose, it would be a few minutes before he could count on coordinated limbs. He clenched the muscles of his ass, trying to assess his condition without being able to touch. He felt raw and sore, but he didn’t think he was torn or bleeding. He should still be able to run when the time came. He was in the process of attempting to scrape some of the crusted semen off his face by rubbing it against the barrel when he heard footsteps on the stairs. 

Steve stilled and listened. Perhaps now that they thought they’d worn him down, they’d be less vigilant. Perhaps this was the chance he’d been waiting for. 

“Ugh, what a mess,” a voice said in German-accented English. “Do something with that.”

Two sets of footsteps came closer, and then Steve gasped as a bucket of cold water was upended over him. Two uniformed soldiers stepped in with sponges and roughly scrubbed Steve down, clearing off the worst of the crusted-on spunk. 

“That’s good enough. You’re dismissed.”

Two sets of boots retreated, and one came closer, until Steve could see a tall, narrow-faced man with a neatly trimmed moustache. The man’s uniform marked him as some kind of officer, though Steve didn’t know enough to identify the rank. The officer stalked in a circle around Steve and stopped to the side, just out of Steve’s sight. 

“I have to admit you’re not what I expected.”

Steve chuckled. Someone always wanted to gloat. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“What is it about you that Sergeant Barnes values so, mm? Look at you. No one else seems to think you’re worth much.” The officer prodded at Steve’s bony ribs, his skinny thighs. “We are ridding our society of degenerates and genetic failures like you. Even the Americans saw that the only way you could be of use was on your knees. But Sergeant Barnes has rescued you from danger several times now, at the risk of his own life, and the lives of his men. Why is that?” 

Steve hadn’t asked anyone to do that. And besides, he’d done as much to free himself. The Howlies were an important part of the war effort—irreplaceable. Steve was useful to them—he made sure of that every day—but they could go on if he was killed. He wasn’t sure that was true in reverse. “Must have been bored,” Steve offered, trying for lighthearted. 

“I am confident he will try to rescue you again.” The officer stopped again in front of Steve, and smiled down to see Steve watching him. “How tragic it would be for him to find you ruined and useless.”

A wave of cold welled in Steve’s stomach and seeped into his limbs. Death, he’d imagined lots of times. He’d kind of expected it would have happened by now. But the gleam in this officer’s eyes promised much worse than that. Steve tried to keep his face expressionless, but some of his fear must have shown. A widening smile brightened the officer’s face. 

“Yes, then you could be useful to us.”

The officer paced around Steve again. “What do you think, liebling? Should I take this?” He shoved a hand under Steve to cup his soft cock. “It’s so small you’d barely miss it.” He tightened his grip until Steve squirmed, then released him. “Then again, that’s not the part that Sergeant Barnes values you for, is it?”

The officer slid his hand up Steve’s side and traced his spine to rest a hand on Steve’s ass. “For some reason, he has become dependent on this—the diseased ass of a crippled prostitute. Pathetic.”

“How many bases of yours has he blown up now?” Steve asked.

The officer stepped sharply to the side and slapped Steve’s face with the back of his hand. Steve winced as his head bounced off the side of the barrel, and he tasted blood in his mouth, but it didn’t matter. It’d been worth it to interrupt the flow of this squid’s tedious self-righteousness.

The officer crouched and grabbed Steve by the chin. “He will not want you after today. No one will.” 

The cold in Steve’s stomach clamped down, and Steve felt momentarily lightheaded. Then he made himself breathe again. This officer wanted him scared, which meant that’s the last thing Steve was going to give him. 

The officer shoved to his feet, stalked over to the wine rack, and stood for a moment as if contemplating the selection. “A French wine, it think. Less of a shame to waste.” He drew the bottle from its place, produced a pocket knife, and pried out the cork. He took a swig straight from the bottle, then spit it onto the floor. “Garbage. I should have known.” He looked at Steve. “Are you thirsty, schatzi?”

Steve was thirsty. Desperately. But he only stared mute defiance at the man. 

“Come, where are your manners?” The officer strode over, grabbed Steve by the jaw, and held him in place as he dumped wine down Steve’s throat. Steve managed to swallow a few times, but mostly choked and sputtered. “You should thank me,” the officer said as he sat back on his heels. “It might dull the pain.”

The officer carried the bottle around to the other side of the barrel, and upended the rest over Steve’s hole. It trickled down his crack, leaving cold trails across his skin and dripping off of his balls. Steve coughed and gulped in breath, willing himself not to have an attack now. He doubted this officer would fetch him some asthma cigarettes. And he didn’t want to die until he’d had a chance to shoot this man. 

Steve set his teeth as the officer pushed the neck of the bottle into him. Loose as he was after taking so many Hydra cocks, the thin length easily slipped inside, until the shoulder of the bottle pressed against his ass. He breathed out and tried to relax. He’d taken two cocks at once. He’d taken a man’s fist. A wine bottle stretching his ass wouldn’t ruin him—as long as it didn’t break. Steve pushed that thought away and concentrated on bearing down, opening up. He had plenty of practice. He breathed and tried to clear his mind. 

The officer twisted the bottle back and forth as he pushed, screwing it further into Steve without a let-up. “Ah, I see you welcome this. You are hungry for more, yes? Insatiable American whore.”

The bottle pressed in hard, its gradual increase in girth forcing Steve’s body open until it felt like he might split apart. He squirmed as the bottle seemed to reach as deep as it could go, then kept going. He thought he felt the tear of flesh inside, and told himself that the blood would be good lubricant. His breaths were coming faster now. He would not scream. 

“If this is too easy for you, what shall we do, eh? What would be a challenge? Shall we bring a fence post to fuck you with? Or, no—the neighboring farm has horses. Shall we tie you up and let a stallion mount you? What is another mindless beast after the savages you service? Would they want you then? Gaping and soiled and—“

Steve screamed as the shoulder of the bottle at last overcame the resistance of his muscles and the fattest part of the bottle entered him. The officer shoved it in as far as it would go, grinding Steve’s body against the rough wood, and bludgeoning Steve’s insides until he was sure there was no room to take more. Steve choked off his scream with a sound dangerously near a sob. 

The officer petted a hand down his flank, still sticky with wine and a few wayward patches of crusted-on come. “That was easier than I thought. I see now that your sergeant’s concept of what ruined means may be far below mine. My job might be a little harder, yes? Ah well. There are some things he has not thought to do to you yet. I can be flexible.”

Steve heard rustling and a metallic snap, and then the cold flat of a blade replaced the officer’s hand against his skin, lazily tracing the curve of his ass. “Yes, this will do.”

The edge of the blade sliced into Steve just at the top of his right ass cheek, drawing a straight line down. Steve bit back another shout. Slicing him up wouldn’t do as much permanent damage as stabbing, so it could be worse. Anything that wouldn’t make it harder for him to walk out of here when he got loose, Steve could endure. If this squid was busy giving Steve paper cuts, he couldn’t be beating Steve into unconsciousness. 

The blade retreated, then came back to draw another line, perpendicular, and strangely purposeful. “When your sergeant is fucking you, how would he like to see a reminder of who you truly belong to?”

The knife moved again to make another cut, further down, and Steve’s artist’s imagination put the picture together, assembling the lines. When understanding dawned, Steve thrashed in his bonds, panic overwhelming his reason. “Get off of me!”

“Careful, darling. You would not want my hand to slip.” The officer held him steady with a hand pressed to the small of Steve’s back and leisurely finished carving the swastika into Steve’s ass. The knife withdrew, and Steve heard the officer step back. 

“That is an improvement. Let’s make sure it will take.” Footsteps retreated, and there was a clink of solid glass near where the soldiers had been playing cards. “You know, the Vikings would mark their flesh to intimidate their enemies in battle, and to show pride in their clan. They had tricks to make sure the marks would be visible.”

Something coarse and powdery rained down on Steve’s skin, and the officer’s hand returned, grinding the grit into the wounds with his palm. Steve kicked his legs against the barrel, but kept his mouth closed on the pain. The officer ignored him.

“They rubbed ash into their scars. Of course, they used the ash of their honored dead, or that of sacred trees, but I think cigarette ash will do for refuse like you.” 

Steve gritted his teeth and stayed silent while the officer smeared the ash in thoroughly, digging it into the cuts with his fingernails. With a pleased “hm,” the officer rubbed his dirty hand against Steve’s thigh, then stepped back to admire his creation. The pain from the cuts was barely noticeable next to the throbbing of Steve’s over-stretched hole, but still he felt the prickle of tears in his eyes. He blinked them away angrily. 

“Yes, cuts like this will scar quite badly. It will be obvious to anyone where your allegiances lie.” The officer traced a finger across Steve’s ass, circling his handiwork. Steve closed his eyes and tried not to picture it: angry red lines packed with dirty gray ash, obvious as a brand. “Do you think the Americans will want you back? Will Sergeant Barnes still want to fuck you, when you’re marked as Hydra property?”

When Steve didn’t answer, the officer leaned his weight against the base of the wine bottle holding Steve open. Steve gasped as the bottle speared into his guts; the pain whited the edges of his vision. “I asked you a question.”

“Go to hell,” Steve ground out. 

The pushing stopped, and when Steve opened his eyes, the officer was crouched in front of him, holding his blood-smeared pocket knife and shaking his head. “That mouth will get you into trouble. Perhaps I should remove your tongue.”

Steve swallowed hard and closed his eyes again.

“Oberleutnant!” The voice came from behind Steve, at the top of the stairs. “Oberleutnant, you are wanted at the guard house.”

Steve’s eyes snapped open to see the officer’s smiling face, his eyes shining with pleasure. He tapped the flat of his knife against Steve’s lips and rose. “I’ll see you later, little one.”

Steve listened until the officer had retreated up the stairs, then let out a long, shuddery breath and gulped in air. He didn’t have the strength left to do anything but hang there in his chains, but he could think. He needed to get free before that officer returned. Before there wasn’t enough of him left to justify trying to escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hydra officer has his facts about scarification mixed up. The Nazis idolized Norse culture, so sometimes ideas or traditions got attributed to them when they came from elsewhere. Ash has historically been used in scarification rituals in lots of places, notably Ethiopia, and is used in modern scarification to achieve larger scars or scars of a certain color. But mostly this guy is just a complete dick.


	4. Chapter 4

Bucky kept his hands up as he walked slowly past the row of soldiers following his progress with the barrels of their guns. He took note of the snipers peeking over the edge of the house’s large facade and the machine gun-- an MG 42-- in its fortified nest in the center what used to be some kind of fancy garden. The squids had certainly prepared for a fight. 

“The famous Sergeant Barnes!” An officer in a regulation-neat Hydra uniform stepped forward from the house, backed by half a dozen guards with their rifles raised. He was tall, with a prissy mustache and a shit-eating grin. “Welcome. I am Oberleutnant Roth, at your service. So glad you could join us.”

“Pleasure’s all yours,” Bucky said shortly. “Where’s my soldier?”

“Your pet fuck toy?” Roth smiled pleasantly, as if they were sharing a joke. “He is enjoying his stay.”

“Uh huh.” Bucky did a slow scan of the yard, letting the assembled squids see him see them and dismiss them. “Well, I’m here to offer a trade. Let him go, and I’ll surrender.”

Roth looked pointedly at the guns trained on Bucky, and raised an eyebrow. “Surrender? My scouts tell me your squad has abandoned you. The rest of the Army is miles away. You are one man against the host of Hydra. You cannot hope to fight us all.”

Bucky fixed Roth with his blankest stare, patient and unblinking. 

“Well.” Roth studied him another minute. “As you wish. We will restrain you, and when you have come quietly we will release your pet.”

“Release him first, or no deal.”

“If you insist.” Roth nodded to one of the soldiers near the door, who disappeared inside. He turned back to Bucky. “Will you come inside, have some tea, perhaps?”

“I’ll wait here.” Bucky slowly lowered his hands and crossed them over his chest. 

The watching soldiers gripped their weapons tighter, but Roth gave them the signal to stand down, and they lowered their weapons. Then he took a few steps towards Barnes, still smiling pleasantly. “You realize that if you joined with us, we could accommodate you more fittingly. A woman, perhaps, soft and good-tempered. You would not have to make do with the leavings of the service, nor share your companion with the men under your command.”

“Thanks.” Bucky was busy scanning the rows of windows on the house, looking for any concealed shooters. “I’ll pass.”

“You know you are not like them.” Roth took another step closer, lowering his voice. “Dr. Zola has made you superior. You are capable of so much more.”

At that, Bucky fixed his eyes on Roth at last, his gaze sharp as a knife’s edge. “What do you know about it?”

“I know that you hide your strength so you will not frighten your comrades. I know that your urge for violence is strong, and you cannot control it.” Roth took a step closer, and Bucky fought the impulse to take a step back. “I know that your superiors do not understand you. They will neither be able to use you nor control you, and they will have to destroy you, if you do not first destroy yourself.”

“You sure know a lot about me for a guy I never met.” Bucky dug his fingernails hard into his palms so his hands wouldn’t shake. 

“We are interested in you, you must understand. Dr. Zola knows what you are. He understands what is inside you, and how it can be harnessed to a higher purpose. How to make you more than a savage mongrel animal who bites the hand of its master as well as his enemy.” Another step closer. “You try so hard to protect them, but you are a greater danger to them than we could ever be. When you come with us, they will be safer. Isn’t that what you want, Sergeant Barnes?”

The soldier returned from inside, thankfully drawing Bucky’s attention away from Roth’s intent gaze. Roth gestured the man forward and stood listening to the man’s muttered German, his smile wavering slightly. Then he turned his attention back to Bucky. “Unfortunately, there has been a little accident.”

Bucky was looking at the soldier. There was blood soaking the knees of his uniform, blood smeared liberally over his hands. Bucky blinked, hard. Needles, scalpels, his skin pulled away in strips. 

“Where is he?” Bucky growled. 

“If you wanted him, you should have kept track of him more closely.” Roth’s smile was back, and he gave a little chuckle, as if he were talking to a friend. “He is such a little thing, very easy to lose.” 

“Where _is_ he?” Fingers pushing under his skin, straps pinning him down.

“Now, now, Sergeant Barnes, you must not lose your temper. We can replace him for you, as I’ve said.”

“Where?” Electricity jolting through him, back arching in a silent scream.

“He is gone.”

Bucky charged forward just as Roth shoved the bloodied soldier between them. In the time it took Bucky to break the man’s neck, Roth was halfway up the stairs to the house, and the soldiers in the yard were raising their guns. But shots were already ringing out from the trees—the Howlies would have had plenty of time to get into the positions they’d scouted earlier—and the squids’ attention was divided between Bucky and the outside onslaught. Holding the soldier’s body before him as a shield, he pushed forwards towards the house. He felt the sting of a bullet hitting his thigh, but he didn’t let it slow him. 

Bucky’s view narrowed to the path the officer had taken. He heard the blood pounding in his ears louder than the muffled rattle of the MG 42. He broke the arm of a squid who came too close, pulled the dead soldier’s sidearm to shoot the two men in the machine gun nest, and then he was through the line. Leaving the bodies behind, Bucky charged inside.   
\--

Steve might have drifted into an exhausted sleep, because he had no idea how much time had passed when there came a clatter of boots on the stairs and excited voices talking in German. 

“I want to come on his face again!”

“I bet we can each do it twice before they know we’re gone.”

A few of the soldiers from last night. Not the officer. Steve slumped in his bonds, battling down the panic that had risen at the thought of facing that man again. 

The soldiers stopped behind him, and one planted a hand on his ass next to Steve’s fresh wounds. “Ha, they marked him.”

“It’s an improvement on that skinny ass if you ask me.”

“But they’ve got him plugged up?”

Someone pulled on the bottle, and Steve groaned as it grated inside of him. It felt like it was dragging his insides along with it.

“Just like a cork,” the other one laughed. “Pop him open!”

One braced a hand against Steve’s hip. They pulled steadily until the bottle came loose, and one set it down on the floor with a click. Steve bit back any noise, though all his pain was awake again and screaming, and listened for what they’d do next. 

“Ugh, now look at it.” A finger traced the stretched rim of Steve’s gaping hole. “Massive. You could fuck him with a canon.”

“Fucking him won’t feel like anything. Your dick would have to be the size of a tree trunk.”

“They could at least wait to ruin him until we’ve had our fun!”

“Selfish bastards.”

“My mouth.” Steve’s voice came so croaky and hoarse he feared his German might be unintelligible. He swallowed, tried again. “You could use my mouth.”

Both soldiers stepped around the barrel to look down at Steve. 

“What did you say, worm?” asked the taller of the two, eyeing him suspiciously.

“I can suck your cock. That’s what they trained me to do.” He searched for a plausible lie. “Lieutenant Dolph said I needed more practice before I would be good enough to stay here. I don’t want to disappoint him.” He widened his eyes, putting on his most innocent face. “It is harder than I’m used to, because German cocks are bigger than American ones.”

The two soldiers looked at each other, then at him. They were definitely considering it. 

“It’s easier if I’m on my knees,” Steve pointed out. 

In short order the two had unlocked Steve’s shackles and put him on his knees next to the barrel. They couldn’t decide who should go first, so they both dropped their trousers and passed Steve between them, dragging him by the hair or the neck onto one cock while he jacked the other with a tight grip, then switching as soon as one got jealous of the other. 

Soon enough they were both moaning and gasping. Steve’s grunts of pain as they manhandled him only seemed to spur them on. When one came with a shout, spilling over Steve’s fist, he sucked hard, pushing the second one over the edge as well. 

As he nursed the second one through his climax, he felt around on the floor behind him with his wet and sticky hand until he found what he was looking for. The man moaned loudly, clapping his companion on the back and laughing. 

Gripping the neck of the wine bottle, Steve smashed it against the side of the barrel. He stabbed it up into the first soldier’s thigh, right at the artery like Dugan had taught him. As the man stumbled backwards, croaking and holding his groin, Steve surged to his feet, slashing at the other man’s throat. The soldier managed to stumble back, so the cut was only superficial, but then he tripped on the pants bunched around his ankles and fell. Steve tumbled down on top of him, holding the sharp edges of the bottle before him. The glass punctured the man’s throat and lodged there. Steve couldn’t pull the blood-slick glass free. He rolled to the side to avoid the snatching hands of the other soldier, who was spurting blood all over the floor but still grasping for Steve, mouthing curses. But then he, too, slumped to the ground.

Steve sat still, listening. He didn’t hear any rush of footsteps or shouting from upstairs. It took three tries to push to his feet, muscles weak with fatigue and shaking with adrenaline. He stripped off the least bloody of the soldiers' clothes, though they were hopelessly big. He rolled up the pant legs and jacket sleeves, and used one of the soldier’s knives to cut a notch in the belt tight enough to hold his pants up. He wasn’t seeing the Howlies without clothes, not this time, maybe never again. 

He had to keep moving, he told himself. One thing, then the next. He wouldn’t look at the staring eyes of the dead soldiers. He wouldn’t feel the scrape of his cuts against the rough fabric of the Hydra uniform. He wouldn’t throw up. He’d been injured before, killed men before, escaped the enemy before. He just needed to keep moving. 

Steve gathered the weapons and ammo, wrapping them in a blood-soaked jacket, and hauled his loot up the stairs. A quick glance around the corner showed him an empty kitchen, and he dashed across to a pantry, pulling the door mostly closed behind him. In the cool dark, he sat still, listening as footsteps hurried by. It sounded perhaps like someone went downstairs, but there was no shouting, no one bursting through the pantry door. Breathing a tentative sigh of relief, Steve unrolled his bundle and started to take stock of his options. That’s when the shooting started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments feed the trash gremlin! (It's me. I'm the trash gremlin.)


	5. Chapter 5

Bucky didn’t see the house, not really. He felt the give of a soft rug under his feet, smelled the old-library scent of books, and heard the gunfire and shouting from outside getting fainter by the second. His eyes tracked movement as one squid after another ran towards him, then fell. He had a gun in his hand, but wasn’t sure if he’d used it. He was following his target.

Through the house, pause to pick up a fresh weapon from a body he’d dropped, around a corner, lean to the left to dodge a bullet, fire twice, keep moving. Narrow wooden stairs, break stride to shove a body out of his way. Straight at the top of the stairs, past three open doors, bones crunching under his hand as the enemy tried to slow him down. He spotted his quarry retreating into a room at the end of the hall, and followed. 

The first thing he saw when he crossed the threshold was the table: shiny silver metal, dangling straps of leather. Beside it, a tray of gleaming implements, half covered with a cloth. Sunshine filtered in through the fabric screens that closed in the table.

“Sergeant.”

Bucky turned his head to see Roth toss a glass bottle. It shattered against the floorboards near Bucky’s feet, and a sickly blue mist boiled up. 

Bucky drew in a quick breath and tried to step back. He couldn’t move. He flicked his eyes to the rifle in his hand, but try as he might, he couldn’t raise it. He could only stand, passive and unresisting. Awake—they’d always wanted him awake for the procedures—but he was trapped. 

“Dr. Zola assured me you had been very receptive to this compound in the past.” Roth was a hazy outline stepping towards him. “You may drop your weapon.”

Bucky hand opened and his rifle tumbled to the floor. Bright lights overhead. A scream that caught in his throat. The feel of his flesh parting under a blade. Bucky looked at the table, and his breath quickened. Roth was before him now, close enough that Bucky could charge him, if only he could move. The rage vibrated under Bucky’s skin, and the fingers of his left hand curled slowly into a fist. 

“You see? No matter how you try to resist, you will always be what we made you. You won’t escape it. Now kneel.”  
\--

Steve stuffed a gun and as much of the ammo as would fit into the pockets of his slightly bloodied Hydra jacket. The Luger pistol he gripped with both hands; Jones had always told him the Luger was a better gun for him: lighter, and less kickback than a rifle. Steve used one bare foot to ease open the pantry door. 

The back of the house seemed quiet, so he crept through the kitchen towards the front, slowing as the screaming and shooting from outside grew louder. He heard the thud and swish of a grenade throwing up dirt, and the high-pitched buzz of a Hydra energy weapon. He risked a peek around the corner, and saw through the open door some Hydra soldiers running across the yard, then falling at the sound of a machine gun. 

Inside, a trail of bodies led from the front door through what seemed to be a library. As Steve picked his way through the corpses, he noticed some had their limbs twisted at improbable angles, and one had his head thoroughly bashed in. Barnes’s handiwork. 

Steve quickened his pace, hopping over another body at the bottom of a narrow set of stairs at the back of the library, then climbed up, stepping at the edges of each stair to minimize the creaks, just like when he used to sneak in late to his room in the boarding house. 

Steve followed voices towards the end of the hall until he saw Barnes framed in the doorway. He was still, glassy-eyed, staring straight ahead, a rifle hanging limply in his right hand. As Steve watched, Barnes’s legs buckled, and he fell to his knees with a thump that made Steve wince. 

Steve eased closer, both hands on his Luger, until he could see what Barnes was looking at. 

The officer who’d tormented Steve stood a few feet in front of Bucky, gazing down at him with a delighted smile. Steve had seen that smile; he knew what kinds of things the officer would do. 

“Hey, you,” Steve called. The officer turned. Steve fired. 

The officer staggered, clutching his stomach. Steve advanced, holding the gun steady and looking straight down the barrel. Dugan would have been proud after all the times he’d corrected Steve’s stance. He aimed at the officer’s chest and shot again, and once more, until the officer tumbled backwards. Steve stepped forward to make sure; he wasn’t going to leave that bastard’s death uncertain. But then Barnes surged to his feet and hit Steve like a ton of bricks, slamming him against the wall and holding him by the throat.

“Bucky—“ Steve croaked, but Barnes didn’t seem to hear. He tried to raise the Luger again—a bullet wouldn’t permanently hurt Barnes, but it might slow him down. Barnes grabbed Steve’s hand and smashed it against the wall until Steve felt something crack in his hand and dropped the gun. 

Barnes’s teeth were clenched, his chest heaving with too-rapid breath, his hand shaking as it tightened on Steve’s throat. Steve tried to rasp out something else, but couldn’t. Maybe he shouldn’t have put on a Hydra uniform. Maybe he shouldn’t have picked up a gun. Steve pushed up on his tiptoes, trying to get some air, but Barnes only squeezed harder. 

Steve flicked his eyes down to the floor, towards the officer he’d shot, who lay with shattered glass and some kind of blue liquid on the floor beside him, and willed Barnes to go with him. Barnes’s eyes followed Steve’s. When he saw the dead man, his grip eased a fraction. As he stared at the body, his breathing slowed. When he looked back at Steve, the senseless rage in his eyes gave way to recognition. 

“Rogers?” Barnes let go, stumbled backwards, and then fell like a marionette with its strings cut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments. They stoke the trash fire :)


	6. Chapter 6

Bucky jerked upright as he awoke, then winced when he realized his whole body felt as sore as if he’d gone ten rounds with a gorilla. He scrubbed a hand over his face and glanced around, eyes narrowing in confusion. He was in an honest-to-god bed with sheets and pillows and everything. There was a fancy carpet on the floor, paintings on the walls, and a giant fireplace with a merrily crackling fire. 

Dugan sat next to the window in a chair with legs carved into paws at the end and his feet kicked up on the sill, looking over his shoulder at Barnes. “You awake?”

“Where are we?” Bucky’s croaked. He threw his feet over the side of the bed and sat there waiting for his head to stop spinning. 

“House where the squids were holed up,” Dugan said. When Bucky raised an eyebrow, Dugan shrugged. “What? It’s warm and dry, and they had plenty of provisions. And they’re all dead.”

“All?” Bucky definitely remembered walking in with his hands raised, seeing what seemed like a full complement of Hydra soldiers stationed outside the house. “No prisoners?”

Dugan gave him a look Bucky couldn’t read. “…No, Sarge.”

Bucky decided to take that as a good thing. “Casualties?”

“Dernier twisted his ankle jumping out of a tree, and Jones got a bit scorched when one of those energy weapons blew up, but they’ll mend.”

“Where’s...“ Bucky’s memory of what had happened after he’d arrived at the house was hazy, but getting clearer by the minute. “Where’s Rogers?”

“Next room over.” Dugan jerked his chin towards the door. 

“He all right?”

“Just shaken up,” Dugan said. “Mostly. Morita wrapped up his hand. He didn’t want any of us fussing over him.”

“I’m not gonna fuss.” Bucky managed to push to his feet. He was just wearing his skivvies, but someone had folded the rest of his uniform and set it on a dresser next to the bed. And if he had to hold onto the bedpost to keep his balance while he put his clothes on, well maybe he’d gotten his bell rung at some point in the fight yesterday.

“Why don’t we get you some grub first?” Dugan stood up and opened the door. 

Bucky narrowed his eyes at Dugan, but Dugan stared back with the implacable stubbornness that made him look just like that bulldog caricature Steve had drawn. “I could eat,” he said at last, and let Dugan lead him out into the hall and down a narrow set of stairs. 

He didn’t see any bodies, but there must have been some, because there was blood. Lots of it. Splashed on the walls and staining the rugs. A pool of it near the front door someone had stepped in, and boot prints tracking it into the next room. Bucky fixed his eyes on Dugan’s back and followed him into the kitchen. 

Morita sat at the table with his radio, one ear in his headphones, writing on a scrap of paper. Monty was at the stove with a towel flipped over his shoulder. He glanced over at Bucky, and his eyes widened. Then he gestured to the table. “There’s toast and butter. I’m making eggs. The squids had a nice little larder.” He looked searchingly at Bucky. “You all right?”

“Fine.” Bucky dropped into a chair and pulled the stack of toast toward him. 

Dugan took the seat next to him. He snatched a piece of toast off the plate and set to shredding it into tiny pieces as he watched Morita. Bucky took his own piece of toast and spread some butter on it. His hands were a little shaky, but spreading butter was easy enough.

Dernier limped into the room, leaning on a crutch. His eyes widened when he saw Bucky, and he said, “Ça va?”

Falsworth turned around and handed Dernier a cup of coffee, then looked at Bucky and said, “He asked if you’re—“

“I’m fine.” Bucky bit off a big piece of toast and stared at the table as he chewed.

Morita set his headphones down, kept scribbling for another few seconds, then dropped his pencil and looked up. “Hey Sarge. You ok?”

“Peachy,” Bucky said grimly. 

“What’d they say?” Dugan asked. 

“Phillips is sending us some people tonight,” Morita said. “ Apparently this place is in some kind of useful position, so they’d rather dig in than try to extract us.”

“Ok by me,” Dugan said. “Wasn’t looking forward to sneaking back through 40 miles of enemy territory.”

“And I could get used to having real food.” Falsworth sat down steaming mugs of coffee in front of Dugan and Bucky, then turned back to the stove. 

“Yeah, here the Germans are with butter, and we’re eating k-rations like a bunch of assholes.” Morita dragged the plate of toast over to his place, and stuck a knife in the butter dish. “So we should do something about those tripwires?”

“Yeah,” Dugan said. “And have Dernier mark those ordinance he buried.”

“You get promoted while I was out?” Bucky asked, glancing at Dugan. 

Morita studied his toast intently, Dernier looked between Dugan and Bucky, then up and the ceiling, and Falsworth peeked over his shoulder and quickly returned his attention to the food. Dugan raised an eyebrow. “You were out for three days. You wanted us to just wait around and see if you were gonna wake up?”

“Three days?” Bucky stared at him, then turned around and glanced out the window, as if that would tell him the day of the week. He looked back at Dugan. “What the hell?”

Dugan shredded a scrap of toast into smaller pieces. “That’s what we wanted to know.”

Bucky closed his eyes and tried to remember what had happened before he passed out. He remembered some shooting, and a Hydra officer grinning at him. And Rogers, standing in a doorway with a pistol raised. Rogers, eyes wide and panicked as Bucky held him by the neck. _“No matter how you try to resist, you will always be what we made you,”_ a voice whispered in his head. _“You won’t escape it.”_

Bucky pushed back his chair with a loud scrape. The other Howlies looked at him, tensed as if ready to catch him if he fell. “I’m gonna check on Rogers.”  
\---

“You are such a cheater!” Jones laughed, and laid down another card. 

“Little old me?” Steve batted his eyelashes and grinned. Dernier had been teaching him how to palm cards, but he didn’t need lessons in acting innocent. 

“You better watch out.” Jones waved a finger at him. “No one’s gonna want to play pinochle with you any more.”

The door burst open with a bang. They both jumped, and Jones was reaching for his weapon before they recognized Sergeant Barnes, up at last, and standing there in the doorway a little wild-eyed. 

Steve thought about what they looked like: Jones with his arm bandaged wrist to shoulder, and Steve with a ring of bruises on his neck fading to yellow and green. He quickly tucked his right hand under the table, and thanked the saints that the worst of the damage was hidden by his clothes. 

“Sarge,” Jones said warily. His hand had stopped halfway to the rifle leaning against the wall, but hovered there, waiting. “You all right?”

“Are you?” Barnes snapped.

Jones raised his bandaged arm by way of demonstration, and said, “Getting there.” 

Barnes turned his gaze on Steve, and said, “I need to talk to you.”

Jones looked at Steve, and Steve gave him a short nod. 

“I’ll see if the coffee’s ready.” Jones picked up his rifle and dropped a hand on Steve’s shoulder to give him a reassuring squeeze before heading out. 

Barnes stepped away from the door to let Jones pass, but watched him until he’d started down the stairs. Then he closed the door and turned back to Steve. The combat-ready vigilance that seemed to be his driving force drained away, and Barnes looked at his feet. “Did I do that to your neck?”

“Yeah.” There was no point in lying about it. Steve had already told the Howlies what had happened. They’d decided to see how Barnes was when he woke up before deciding what to do and what to tell Phillips. And here he was, walking and talking more or less like normal. Steve wondered if it had been like this after Azzano, the Howlies closing ranks against questions, shielding their Sergeant as he’d done for them. “Want a seat?”

Barnes looked at the place Gabe had vacated, then at Steve. After a few moments, he shuffled over and sat down, eyes still fixed on Steve’s neck. “What else?” he said. 

With a sigh, Steve held up his right hand. Morita had pronounced his ring finger “probably broken” and splinted Steve’s fingers together. It could have been his thumb or his pointer finger, and that might have made going back to drawing at the ad agency after the war tough. So it could have been worse. And days later, it didn’t pain him much at all compared to his still-sore hole and the sting and itch of healing cuts.

Barnes frowned and blinked rapidly a few times, as if he was trying to remember. Steve wasn’t surprised, not really, as out of it as Barnes had been. But he hadn’t wanted to have to be the one to tell Barnes. He’d held out some faint hope Barnes would remember once he woke up. Dugan had told him not to expect too much—Barnes hadn’t been able to tell them what happened to him at Azzano, and at least this time Steve had been there for part of it. 

“The squid had some kind of drug,” Steve explained. “You got all loopy, first just standing there like you couldn’t move. Then I think he was giving your orders. After the squid got shot, you jumped on me. I was wearing a Hydra uniform, so you probably thought I was one of them.”

“All five foot two of you,” Barnes said with a scowl.

“I’m five foot four,” Steve snapped. “Anyway, you held onto me for a bit, then you saw that the squid who’d drugged you was dead, and you let go. Then you passed out for three days.”

“Why were you wearing a squid uniform?” Barnes asked, a note of suspicion in his voice. 

Steve ignored the question. “Jones kept a sample of the stuff, scraped some into a bottle. He thinks the SSR might be able to figure out what it is, maybe find a way to counteract it if they try to use it again.”

“I attacked you,” Barnes said slowly. He was looking at Steve’s neck, flexing his hand like he remembered the feel of Steve’s fragile throat in his grip.

“You weren’t yourself.”

Barnes laughed, but it was a desperate, broken sound. “I don’t think I’m ever gonna be myself again, Rogers.” He dropped his head into his hands and sat there breathing shakily.

“You stopped,” Steve said quietly. “I couldn’t have fought you off. You stopped, and you knew who I was. You could have killed me. You didn’t.”

“Christ, Rogers.” Barnes threw his head back and wiped an arm over his face. “That’s a low fucking bar.” 

“I’m alive.” Steve still wasn’t certain that was the best outcome, but he’d make the most of it. If Steve wasn’t here, he didn’t know who would be trying to talk sense into Barnes. Dugan didn’t have much of a way with words. One of them would have to muddle through it next time something like this happened, once Steve was no longer assigned to them. “That’s what matters.”

“But I hurt you,” Barnes said stubbornly.

“Well, you hurt the squids more.”

Barnes winced and glanced at the door. “A lot of them?”

“Yeah, a lot.” Steve had helped the others drag out the bodies. They’d only finished last night. “Thanks for that, by the way. I think I would have had trouble sneaking out on my own this time.” 

Barnes gave another hoarse laugh, and dropped his head in his hands again. 

Steve watched him for a moment, but he didn’t move. He was just as still as he’d been when the squid had given him that drug, stiff as a doll, like all the fight had been drained out of him. “Just ‘cause they did something to you doesn’t mean they own you.”

“It does if they can make me turn on my guys.” Barnes pushed to his feet and paced in front of the window.

“You’re deafer than me,” Steve grumbled. “I said you stopped.” When Barnes kept pacing, Steve stood and planted himself in front of him, arms crossed and expression stern. “Hey, you didn’t really hurt me. You didn’t do what they wanted you to do. So they tried, but they couldn’t control you.” Barnes had shrugged off what they did to him with no permanent effects. He had nothing to be ashamed of. 

Barnes was still staring him down, so Steve raised his chin and said, “They’re my bruises, so I should get some say over whether you feel guilty or not.”

“Mm hm.” Barnes’s gaze turned pensive. “Those aren’t your only injuries, though.”

“Oh, I’m fine.” Steve waved a hand dismissively and retreated to his chair.

“Rogers,” Barnes said sharply enough to make Steve look at him. “Don’t lie to me.”

Steve glared, but Barnes didn’t look away. Barnes could be stubborn, too. “Well, yeah,” Steve said, shrugging his shoulders to indicate it didn’t matter to him. “There was a little tearing from all the sodomy, some cuts from a knife, and I had some scrapes and bruises from being tied down. That’s all.”

“They cut you.” Barnes eyes roved over Steve’s form, as if he could find the wound through his clothes.

“Not much.” Steve could feel the heat rising to his face, even though he was trying to sound nonchalant. The guys hadn’t cross-examined him like this. They’d left him with a med kit and given him some space. There was a hand mirror in the vanity, and he knew how the wound looked: ugly and harsh, and terrifyingly obvious. He’d dug out the ash, but most of his efforts had just torn the cuts wider. In the end, he’d poured sulfa powder over it and covered it with gauze. The scars weren’t going to be small or light. 

“What?” Barnes seemed to sense there was something Steve was keeping back. 

“It’s nothing.” Steve crossed his arms over his chest again and looked away. He wasn’t any good at keeping secrets; it hadn’t been necessary, since no one had cared much about what was going on in his head since his ma had passed. But here was Barnes, looking at him and not backing away. “I said it’s nothing.”

“That’s not true.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“That’s not true either.”

“Well it’s none of your business!” Steve snapped.

Barnes stepped in front of Steve’s chair and stood looming over him. “You’re under my command, it is my business. Tell me.”

“I can’t.” Steve gulped in a breath, swallowed against the lump of humiliation rising in his throat. He looked away at last, towards the square of gray sky he could see out of the window. 

“Steve.” Barnes dropped to a crouch and put a hand on Steve’s knee. “What happened?”

“He cut me to—he wanted it to scar.” Steve’s breath shuddered in his chest. When he closed his eyes, he could picture the sharp angles of it, the angry red. “It’s a…” He couldn’t say it. He didn’t want to think it. 

“Let me see it,” Barnes said. 

Steve shook his head vigorously. He hadn’t looked at it the last few times he’d cleaned and dressed the wound. His mind went blank with fear when he thought about what the Howlies would think when they found out, and the word “ruined” paraded around in his mind until it was all he could hear. 

“Let me see,” Barnes said again, maddeningly calm. 

“I said no!” Steve shoved at Barnes, only managing to rock him backwards on his heels. Then he snatched his hands back, horrified. He’d struck his commanding officer. 

But Barnes didn’t look mad. He kept his eyes locked on Steve’s and said quietly, “I know about having things done to me that I didn’t want.”

Steve let out a shaky breath and closed his eyes. Someone would see it eventually, if he ever hoped to get back to his duties. And Barnes deserved to be able to report why he was trading Steve in, and not have to come up with some other excuse. 

With a huff of breath, Steve pushed to his feet. He fumbled with his belt until he could pull it open, then shoved down his shorts with his pants and turned around so he wouldn’t have to see Barnes’ face. 

Barnes knelt behind him, and tugged gently at the upper corner of the gauze covering the wound until it peeled away. Steve squeezed his eyes shut, and felt gooseflesh rise as the cool air washed over his skin. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the tips of Barnes’s fingers grazed the skin right below the healing cuts, and Steve shuddered. 

“Hurts?” Barnes asked.

“It’s almost healed,” Steve said, which was stretching the truth more than a little, and also did not answer the question. 

Barnes drew his hand away and Steve gulped in a breath. He was disgusted. He had to be. He wasn’t cruel enough to say it, but he wouldn’t want to fuck Steve with that in his face, reminding him of all the squids who’d used Steve, and how easy it had been to mark Steve as theirs. Maybe they’d still let Steve work at the pro stations, if he only used his mouth and no one had to see how he was disfigured. Or if they fucked him on his back, it wouldn’t be visible. He might have a hard time convincing the powers that be that he was worth keeping around in some capacity, but he was sure as hell gonna try. 

From behind him, Barnes said, “We’ve been meaning to get tattoos.”

“What?” Steve asked, not sure he’d heard.

“The Howlies.” Barnes patted Steve’s ass, then stood. “Only fitting yours should go on your ass.”

Steve turned around, pulling up his trousers, and frowned up at Barnes. “Tattoos?”

“Like a company insignia for the Howling Commandos. Should cover it up pretty well. You’ll have to sketch something for us, though. None of us can draw for shit.”

Steve stared at him. “You’re not—You can’t… You’ll still know. You can’t want me after this.”

“You’re not what they did to you,” Barnes said fiercely.

Steve looked at him for a moment, and a small smile crept onto his face. “I’ll remember that if you will.”

“Fuck you,” Barnes said, but there was no heat behind it. 

There came a tentative knock at the door, and Steve called, “Come in.”

Jones poked his head in, holding the handles of three mugs of coffee that were tipped precariously. “Am I interrupting?”

“No,” Barnes said, with a glance down at Steve. “Come in. Rogers was about to trounce me in canasta.”

Steve re-buckled his belt and adjusted his trousers so the gauze lay flat. The throbbing of the healing cuts didn’t feel so painful now as it had earlier. He scooted over to take the seat next to Barnes, and patted the empty chair. “Want us to deal you in? I promise to let you win at least once.”

Jones set down a mug in front of Rogers, so light with cream it was practically white, a mug of plain black for Barnes, and his own mug, thick with sugar, and chuckled softly. “Shit, Sarge, the only worse cheater than Rogers is you.” Then he winced, and shot Barnes a worried glance.

Barnes shook his head. “You think everyone’s a cheater, because you’re such a crap player.”

Jones laughed, and Steve sipped at his coffee and watched Barnes shuffle the cards. 

“You want to lead off?” Barnes asked, glancing at Steve. 

“Nah,” Steve said with the beginnings of a smile. “I trust you.”

Barnes held his eyes for a moment, then grinned and said, “Sucker.” He tapped the cards against the table, and started to deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Your comments fan the flames of future trash fires. If you want more 4F, check out the 242-page pdf version of [the 4F book](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17853578), jam-packed with art and stories.


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